


Return Again Always

by FirelightLion



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Aftermath, Arthur Knows, Arthur Returns, Arthur comes back, Arthur has magic now sort of, Arthur needs a haircut, Arthur’s alive again, Banter, Commoner Arthur, Continuation, Friends to Lovers, Gwaine is alive, Gwaine never died, Gwen is Queen, Hurt/Comfort, I needed to write this after watching season 5 and sobbing, Idiots, Idiots in Love, M/M, Merlin is poisoned, Mordred comes back, Mordred is alive, Post-Canon, Post-Series, Protective Arthur, Role Reversal Kind Of, Undercover Arthur, big surprise Camelot is in danger again, it’s been 3 years in timeline, magic is accepted in Camelot, merlin needs a hug, pre-immortal Merlin?, they’re ALL idiots like always oh boy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:33:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22081879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FirelightLion/pseuds/FirelightLion
Summary: The time has come for Arthur to return… though it’s not when anyone predicted.~~~The air couldn’t come into his lungs fast enough, and Merlin felt his hands tremble from the poison taking its toll. “Th-thank you for your service.”The stranger pulled his hood off, and sincere brown eyes appeared from behind the overgrown bangs, accompanied by the hint of a smirk.“It’s an honor to serve you, Merlin.”Merlin froze, all of his best dreams and worst nightmares from the last 3 years compiling into the figure crouching before him. He knew those eyes, that voice; knew it as well as he knew himself.“...Arthur?”
Relationships: Gwaine/Merlin (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 144





	1. Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [A_Reflective_Projection](https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Reflective_Projection/gifts).



> Note on Spell pronunciation chapter 1:  
> (Yes, I meticulously went through the episodes and recorded the pronunciations for them. Also I use macrons in my pronunciations.)
> 
> Ic ðe ðurhhæle ðinu licsar: pronounced: “Icthay thohellay thee nolixar”
> 
> “mid ðam sundorcræft ðære ealdan æ. Drycræft ðurhhæle ðina wunda ond ðe geedstaðolie” Pronounced “Nicthan sōndeckrefferre Īaldre drackreft helle thīnowounda. Honda-īyeyas thathorī.”
> 
> Forþ fleoge!: pronounced “fōc-flīogan!”

The last dream was fading. It slipped into oblivion, leaving only suffocating cold. He could not breath. It was as though he were holding his breath, as though the air had stilled deep inside his lungs, allowing nothing in or out. 

_Cold. So cold._

Cold enough that he shouldn’t be alive. Cold and dark. But when he opened his eyes, Arthur Pendragon saw light. Faded light shone down on him from somewhere above. He moved slowly, arms leaden, not feeling as though they were entirely his own. _Open. Shut. Open._ He watched through bleary eyes as his fist numbly performed the motions. Arthur looked towards the light again. It was rippling, dappled sunlight, and slightly... green? It only now occurred to him that he was _underwater_. Very. far. underwater. And he couldn’t breath. 

Breathing was important. 

His hunger for oxygen driving, he willed his legs beneath him and kicked off the bottom of the lake, upwards, into the light.

~~~

All that he remembered played back as evasive half-stitched visions. As Arthur lay on the sand of the lake side, letting the sun burn red through his eyelids, he desperately tried to recall those fragments. They were slipping like sand through his fingers; distant memories of another world, which may or may not have existed. His knights had been there, Elyan, and Lancelot—poor man, turns out he was possessed or something when he kissed Gwen. Arthur supposed he could forgive that. And his sister, Morgana. He’d only caught a glimpse of her, only once, but she had been there, he recalled. She had... smiled? Hesitant, almost sincere... The thought made him grimace. He was never very good at reading emotions. He had died because of her, he knew that much. He was glad that she was dead. His father too had been in his dream, and his—

_“Mother,”_ he said out loud, at the realization. His memory of her still lingered. Her voice, gentle and knowing, her touch the softest and most caring and _warm_ . He wanted to sink into her arms again, to breathe in the smell that was uniquely hers and feel again what he’d missed his entire life. He longed for her comfort, so starkly different from that of his father’s. Arthur quickly pushed himself up and looked around, half-expecting to see her somewhere on the shore or in the woods, watching over him. She had always, _always_ been watching over him. He knew that now. She _had_ to be here. 

He called out again, whipping his head around. “Mother?” A piece of lake weed slipped from his hair and hit him in the face. He flung it back into the water in disgust, before brushing sand from his matted locks and standing shakily, surveying his surroundings. He remembered vaguely where he was now. He was at this lake, this very shoreline with Merlin, and Merlin was holding him, when he was… 

Dying.

Arthur blinked. He hadn’t _really_ died, though, had he? He had just… _._ _been underwater. For a long time._ Just how long, he had yet to gauge still. Scanning the shoreline, it appeared that he was alone. _Thank gods for that._

Arthur kicked off his wet boots and began examining himself. His skin was wet but otherwise normal. It wasn’t decayed or pale or even pruny, so he couldn’t have been underwater for _so_ long. Still, it _felt_ like it had been ages; as if his body had been paralyzed and only now reawoken. He touched his face, his hair, scratched his crotch, wiggled his toes, sniffed his armpits—they didn’t smell, for he’d been underwater. Still, he wasn’t sure he liked how he smelled in general. Like… lakewater. And mud. He shivered. What he wouldn’t give for a hot bath right now. And a mirror. And _Merlin_ to fetch those things for him. 

Where _was_ Merlin? He glanced towards the trees again, searching for any sign of his servant. Merlin should be here, shouldn’t he? Merlin would never desert him… right? _Unless he thought I was dead._ The trees held no answers, and Arthur looked to the lake instead. It was really quite beautiful, having an almost magical quality about it. He faintly recalled Merlin telling him something about being able to sense a magical place. Everything being… brighter, was it? More alive? Perhaps the lake was magical. Perhaps that could explain it then. He hadn’t died, so it must have been magic. Enchanted? Trapped by a spell? But even as he thought this, memories were coming back to him. Memories of his servant holding his dying bod— _No._ He _hadn’t_ died. He was alive now; as alive as he’d ever been. And Merlin would be back, or else he would find the man himself, wherever he may be. Merlin couldn’t hide for the life of him, the idiot. _But…_ There was another memory nagging at the back of his mind, an important one involving Merlin, and magic, and Merlin _not_ being an idiot… 

Preposterous. 

He chose to ignore the very idea of it. Merlin, having magic? No, it was Merlin being _smart_ , that concept he couldn’t quite wrap his head around. Arthur felt a grin tug at his mouth despite himself. Merlin. What would the fool do without him? He would find his servant first. That was most important. It didn’t really matter if Merlin turned out to have magic like in his memory. Arthur couldn’t even distinguish which of his memories were real anyways. Everything was so jumbled, so indistinct, and... _just let him be alive._

Arthur stretched and cracked his neck, before turning from the lake and letting out a heavy sigh. Truthfully, he had no idea where he _himself_ was, let alone Merlin. Even if he did at one point, everything he once knew was slightly hazy. He knew that he had to find civilization, however. Preferably before nightfall. He shook water and sand out of his boots before reluctantly slipping them back on, as he tried to calculate which direction to take through the woods.

“Arthur.” 

Arthur jumped. The voice had come from the lake behind him. When he turned there was a girl standing waist-deep in the water. She was skinny and pale, with long brown hair plastered to her face. Arthur felt heat come into his cheeks. Had she been watching this whole time? She was rather pretty, he thought. For that matter, something about her seemed surreal, even. Beautiful, peaceful, yet... slightly eerie.

“Yes?” he answered confusedly, mind still feeling as though he were half asleep. He now realized that the girl’s fist was extended towards him face down, holding the hilt of his sword. Ah, he would be needing that. He took a few steps towards her. She smiled and nodded encouragingly. Arthur had the sense to take off his boots again before meeting her in the water, and could feel her smirking at him as he did so clumsily. Oh well. He did look rather foolish. He waded in and met her, taking the hilt. The girl met his eyes solemnly. 

“You need to protect him.”

“Protect who?” Hadn’t he already protected them all? They had won, hadn’t they? Morgana was dead, he knew that much. Who was there to protect?

The girl smiled, perhaps a bit forlornly.

“Merlin.”

* * *

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    (O)X/X/X[]__ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᛖᚦ_ᚹᚱᚨᛖᛏ_ᚱᚢᚢᛒᚾᚨᚠᚢ_____>
             \>  
    
    

* * *

**Two Months Later.**

There was a commotion in Camelot’s courtyard. The court magician, Hayden Blakesleye was preparing another performance. People gathered with their families, smiling jovially. Dogs barked and children ran past, scurrying around knees for a better vantage. Merlin stopped to watch the scene, its eerie backwards similarity with another scene, many scenes, for that matter striking a painful chord in his memory. The stage that Hayden walked upon had once stood the pole of a noose, the pavement where the crowd gathered, a bonfire. Of course, the noose was still used for convicted criminals, on occasion, but it had been three years since Camelot’s ban on magic was lifted. _Three years since…_ Hayden was scanning the crowd. He spotted Merlin, and excitedly waved a long arm in his direction, grinning ear to ear. That goofy grin was contagious, and Merlin smiled back, offering a small wave in return. 

Hayden wasn’t really all that good at magic, but Merlin was always impressed with his abilities to perform before an audience. The people of Camelot adored Hayden, naturally, with his unconditional friendliness and endless energy, and they didn’t need to know that he lacked magical proficiency. All they usually required was a good show, with lots of flashing lights and fireworks. Any novice at magic could manage that. And any time that magic was really needed, it was their unspoken agreement that Merlin would be there to help his friend out. Merlin was truly glad that he didn’t have the title. Someone like Hayden deserved it.

He knew that he didn’t have to hide his magic anymore, of course. _But old habits die hard._ The only people who really knew about his magic were Gwen, Percival, Gwaine and Leon. And Gaius of course, but he had always known. And his mother, and Arth— He threw the thought from his mind before it could consume him.

Gwaine and Percival has been the first to find out. He remembered the day vividly, when Percival had called out to him from the woods by the lake side, shortly after... Arthur’s death. See? there it was again. He couldn’t avoid it. The name plagued him like a forbidden word. Merlin didn’t know how Percival had found the lake of Avalon, but that hadn’t mattered in the moment.

_“Merlin! Gwaine needs help!”_

And Merlin had smeared his tears into his skin and stood to help, pretended as though his world hadn’t just crumbled because _I can’t lose Gwaine too. I can’t. No matter what, I can’t._ And Percival had dragged Gwaine onto the beach where Merlin tried to save Arthur less than an hour ago. He’d barely been aware that he was using magic in front of people. In that moment the words had been numb in his mouth and his eyes still prickled his hands still shaking and everything breaking but he’d murmured the spell anyways.

“ _Ic ðe ðurhhæle ðinu licsar.”_ He remembered the panic when Gwaine hadn’t opened his eyes immediately, and then the sound of Percival drawing his sword on him, voice full of fear _._ _“What are you doing, Merlin?”_ But he had kept chanting because he was nothing without his magic and if he couldn’t save at least one person he cared about— _“mid ðam sundorcræft ðære ealdan æ. Drycræft ðurhhæle ðina wunda ond ðe geedstaðolie.”_

Gwaine had woken. And Percival had said icily _“You’re a sorcerer.”_ And then Gwaine, blinking up at him in confusion, and suspicion, and _betrayal_ — _“Merlin?”_ And it was the worst moment of Merlin’s life, because he could feel their accusations and hatred and Arthur was gone and the tears were spilling out uncontrollably and... and Gwaine had wrapped his arms around him and whispered soft words of comfort in his ear, stroking his hair, cradling his head—

_“It’s okay. Shhhh it’s okay. You’re okay.”_

And Merlin had clung to him like he was a rope in a storm, his entire body trembling, messy irrepressible sobs coming out and leaking onto the knight’s bloodstained shoulder. And Gwaine had held him, held him until his tears dried, while Percival had left the scene to mull things over. Gwaine had lightly kissed his forehead and Merlin had slept at his place that night, because he didn’t trust himself to be at Gaius’s just then, not when everything around him reminded him of what he’d lost. 

Percival had come around. They all had, eventually. Merlin only found out later that Percival’s little sister had been killed at the hands of magic. So many people had, with Camelot under attack by Morgana. It was natural that they be afraid, after what happened. They had all lost those they loved.

Gwen found out about his magic next. He had told her the following day, when she was alone in her bedchambers, the room she used to share with Arthur. It had been somehow easier to say it, now that Gwaine and Percival knew. As the words tumbled out _“I’m a sorcerer,”_ he realized that he hadn’t actually said it to someone before yesterday, with Arthur. Then the room had seemed to grow warmer, and everything felt lighter when a small smile came across Gwen’s face, the first smile he’d seen on her since she heard of Arthur’s death. _“I suspected as much. You’re not very good at keeping secrets, you know.”_

Little by little, Merlin had opened up to people, as Camelot’s attitude towards magic shifted from fear to awe. He still kept it under wraps, for the most part, but no longer fought to hide his gift, now actively using it to aid Gaius in his healing practice, which made everything _so much easier._ His mentor sometimes joked about Merlin putting him out of business. But usually their patients didn’t find out how they’d been healed. If anyone did ask about Merlin’s possessing magic, he would tell them that he dabbled, and maybe perform a cheap trick or two. That was really only _bending_ the truth, he told himself. Not a lie at all. If anyone found out that he held more magic than Hayden had in his little finger, he would undoubtedly gain much more attention; attention that he definitely didn’t want. Most people never asked, however; never questioned the strange coincidences that happened in his presence, and some days it felt as though nothing had changed... as though magic were still outlawed. As though he would still be hanged for revealing it. 

Merlin glanced upwards to the balcony where he could see Guinevere looking down on the event, a faint smile on her face. He hurriedly looked away, before he could imagine Uther there, foreseeing an execution, or worse—Arthur. 

Merlin wanted to believe that Arthur would return any day now; that he would rise from the dead, because _we need him. We need him now._ But even as he thought this, he knew it wasn’t true. The people of Camelot had moved on. Even Gwen, though heartbroken, had steadied her footing fast, never once seeming to slip into the lasting despair that had overcome himself. She was strong, as a queen should be, and though she might sometimes think otherwise, Merlin knew she didn’t need Arthur, or any man for that strength. 

_But I need him_.

Merlin broke himself from the reverie and continued on his way back to the physician’s quarters to deposit his fresh-picked herbs. And that was another thing. Picking fresh herbs was no longer a cover for some covert mission, oh no. Merlin felt himself smile. He was _actually_ doing it himself, now that… 

Three years. Three years to forget. Why was it that everyone else seemed able to do that? He entered, slamming the door shut behind him. Merlin dropped the herbs unceremoniously on the floor before going to his room where he fell face-first onto his cot. It was not as cushioning as he’d hoped, and he choked a little as the breath was knocked out of him.

_Perfect for my mood._

* * *

All was ready, as Beatrix Lethorne made her way towards the physician’s quarters. The palace guards suspected nothing. Half of them had eyes for her no doubt, but this aside, in everyone’s eyes she was a serving girl and no more. Turning out of the courtyard, Beatrix spotted two of said guards standing at one of castle entryways. One she recognized, for they had met earlier that day. Dale, was it? Or Dean? It didn’t really matter. “I’m seeking the court Physician, Gaius. I was told to look here?” She smiled at him coyly, and he nodded, swallowing. Likely blushing also, though she didn’t pay notice, intent on passing. His friend however, stopped her with a light hand to the shoulder, and she fought to keep irritation from crossing her features.

“The physician is out.”

Beatrix feigned surprise. “Oh… I’ll just have to leave a note, I suppose.” She smiled at him. “Thank you for telling me.” The guard nodded and she moved past, proceeding up the stone steps. Fools. They were all the same—idiots, and desperate for a female’s touch; they disgusted her. But they certainly made her job easier. Infiltrating as a servant was almost _too_ _easy_. Despite the lower status, no one seemed to ever suspect servants. She just had to smile, and people liked her. She had heard queen Guinevere herself used to be a serving girl, so perhaps that was why she was so trusting of them. But she wasn’t after the queen; that wasn’t her mission. Raullin wanted the kingdom weak, but not broken—not yet at least. And besides… if his attempts at necromancy proved fruitful (Beatrix had her own doubts, of course- her colleague never had so much magical success as he would have people believe) then perhaps once all was said and done it would not matter who had died for them.

Beatrix pulled her hood up and took a steeling breath before knocking softly on the physician’s door. There was silence. 

She knocked again, “Hello?” This time she could hear shuffling from the other side. 

The voice of a young man called back. “Come in.” The door swung open easily, and she limped inside, making sure to trip on the step, and shriek a little as she landed on the floor. Ah, the call of a maiden in distress, how she loved that one. 

“Are you alright?” The young man, _Merlin_ , helped her up, and supported her as she clung to him.

“Please, is Gaius here?”

“Um. No... he’s out. He’ll be back in an hour. Can I help you?”

“M-maybe…” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “S-sorry I’m… It’s my leg, and um…” She met his eyes for added intensity. “Well... this is rather awkward, isn’t it?”

“Oh, it’s f—” She stabbed the manticore fang into the warlock’s neck, and his eyes went wide, muscles tensing to fight back. She was ready for the spell to leave his mouth, and allowed herself to be thrown back against the door when he managed to gasp _“Forþ fleoge!”_ She hit the door hard, and felt her breath leave her on the impact. There would be a bruise on her shoulder from that. All the same, a grim smile came upon her face from the feeling of success. When Beatrix rose, Merlin had collapsed, his own magic having taken too much out of him. Pity, he was a handsome lad. The venom from the manticore fang wasn’t as potent as the stinger would have been, though it did the job nicely nonetheless. Korllux wouldn’t in a million years allow her—or anyone to take his precious stinger, which was fair enough. It had been a hassle even to persuade him for usage of his broken fang. 

Beatrix paused to consider her present options. She could kill Merlin now, lest there be any risk… Merlin’s death would be rather slow at this rate, perhaps a few days at best, and should there be even the slightest chance of recovery... No. The poison was without a cure. He could not recover. Leaving him alive was the kinder option. _I’m not that much of a monster._ He would get to say goodbye to people this way; his friends should be so grateful… it was more than she had ever gotten at the hands of death. 


	2. A New Age

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN:
> 
> A note on time and location. This chapter is set back two months to when Arthur came out of the Lake of Avalon. Also, I’m pretty sure that the Lake of Avalon is much closer to Camelot than where Arthur ends up currently being. However, I also recall the lake being impossible to find without magic, or magic working to help you to it. So I think that because magic’s at work, it’s reasonable to say that Arthur might be spit out wherever fate throws him, since he didn’t find the lake on his own. 
> 
> A note on Spell pronunciation  
> “Strangaþ” pronounced: “Strang-th”  
> “Léoht” Pronounced: Li’ought  
> “ic þé álíese. Bemelde” pronounced: Icthay Alise-aye b-meldeh (okay so this one I kind of threw together myself? There’s only so much old English I’ll look up though, so idk how accurate it would be. But if there’s any hardcore old english fans who know their stuff feel free to correct me lol.)
> 
> A note on characters:  
> I imagine the character Doran looking like the actor Jamie Bell, but with shoulder-length hair and a beard.  
> Also the bartender character in this scene is NOT the one portrayed in the show.

Having departed from the strange lake, Arthur made his way through the foreign wood, each bush, sapling and conifer seeming less familiar than the last. He didn’t feel too confident in his direction, but knew he wouldn’t be without a landmark. The lady of the lake had not told him the way out of the wood. She had vanished the moment his back was turned, and he was now thoroughly convinced that the lake possessed magical properties of some sort. _Protect Merlin_ , she’d told him. She hadn’t said when, where or from what. She hadn’t even given him her name. Evidently she knew Merlin, though, and the persistent idea that his servant possessed magic nagged again at his conscious. It had to have been a memory; had to have been real, if he had come out of the lake. A vision of his own unconscious body swept his mind again, where Merlin had been holding him by the lake side—had there been a _dragon?_ That part was much fuzzier. If any of it was a dream, it would have been that. But Merlin had been real; their exchanges had been real.

And that meant Merlin was a sorcerer. 

A sorcerer who had saved his life, on multiple occasions. A sorcerer… who was his friend. Arthur blinked hard, willing away the unpleasant prickling feeling at the corner of his eyes. He would find Merlin. Once he was rid of this damned forest, that is. And things could be worse, after all. He could be tired, or wounded, or...

 _Wait_. Arthur stopped walking, and brought his hand to his side, where he’d been—there was no wound. No, that couldn’t be right. He had been stabbed there, stabbed by Mordred, and that’s why Merlin had been taking him some place, to get better. 

_I guess we got there. I was healed; the lake was magic and healed me, and he just didn’t know it. That’s why I’m alive now._ It all suddenly clicked into place in Arthur’s mind. _I was given another chance. And now I’m supposed to protect Merlin, like he protected me._ Arthur swallowed down a nagging ache in his chest, one that had nothing to do with a physical injury. Merlin had always protected him; always been there by his side. Solitary missions had never bothered Arthur before Merlin, but now he’d grown accustomed to his servant’s company, and he wasn’t used to being alone. And Merlin would know what direction to take, wouldn’t he? He always did, somehow. An echo of Merlin’s voice resonated in his mind. _“I can… see the path ahead.”_

 _He could see the path ahead. Of course._ _With magic._

Arthur let a long breath out, frustrated. It felt as though the woods were mocking him. He was supposed to be an expert hunter, tracker, warrior, _hero_ , and here he was wandering blind. Blundering, really, if he was being honest with himself. 

“Damn it.” He swung around and angrily knocked his head into a tree. He kicked it too for good measure, because it felt good to just _hit_ something, and the pain that bit into his toe was a sweet one. It reminded him that he was _very much alive_ ; that he could both feel and _inflict_ pain. Not that the tree could feel anything, but... _but what if it could?_ Arthur suddenly felt just a bit cautious. How did he know for certain that the tree could not feel? Magic was everywhere, wasn’t it? He’d been blind to it all these years, but... he looked hard at the tree he had just kicked. It didn’t _seem_ very magic. But what if it was a spirit of some sort, what if he’d offended it—He pursed his lips, then patted the trunk. “Sorry.”

When he at last made it out of the woods onto an open road, the sky was turning pink.

Arthur had traveled quite a lot in his life, and he reckoned that he knew most of the well-traveled roads leading to Camelot. This one seemed vaguely familiar, but still looked similar to numerous roads in the countryside, and the sloping grassland around him still held no indicators of where he was. Arthur started in the direction of the sunset.

The town that he eventually arrived at seemed faintly familiar to him, and he felt a small bit of relief wash over. The village was small, with narrow streets, and few people outside at this hour. It was a chilly night and the ground was wet with mud, as though the last few days had been rainy. The weather was suspiciously like that of early spring, but it could not be, of course, because Arthur remembered it being late-summer when he’d been with Merlin. He quietly passed by dark buildings displaying rectangular glowing eyes. It gave him an uneasy feeling, like they were watching him, accusing him of not-belonging. 

_“WUFF!”_

Arthur startled, unsheathing his sword before he could think. As the dog whimpered and backed away to its post he resheathed it, feeling foolish and slightly guilty. Looking up, he realized that the post was rooted outside a tavern. The sign hanging above the door read _The Brawny Bear_ , and had a knife lodged in it. 

_Friendly._ Well, he’d seen worse.

 _The Brawny Bear_ was noticeably louder than Camelot’s _The Rising Sun_ , however when Arthur pushed open the door, the commotion ceased, and he had the eerie sense of deja vu. He was pretty sure he remembered this tavern now. Something about the nice locals was hard to forget. Several attendants gave him menacing looks as he started making his way to the counter. _They don’t know who I am; it’s alright,_ Arthur thought. _They can’t recognize me. I’m just a commoner to them._ If he was recognized, it could only bring trouble. Thankfully, their gazes suddenly softened, and they started becoming distracted again, averting their attention elsewhere. Arthur breathed out in relief as he dug in his pocket for a gold piece to pay for his stay. 

His pocket was empty.

_Oh, come on._

Had someone looted his “dead” body, or had it been lost in the lake? In either case, it was gone. He hadn’t really wanted to reveal his social standing, but it didn’t seem as though he had much choice. He needed a place to rest, after all.

Arthur approached the bartender, who had returned to cleaning mugs as the conversation in the bar gradually resumed around them. Leaning in, Arthur whispered to him. “Look, I’ve just been robbed, and I would be most grateful if you could offer me lodgings for the night. I promise that I can repay you handsomely if you do.” 

The man didn’t respond, and Arthur ducked his head into range of vision, clearing his throat. The bartender seemed to startle.

“Sorry, whas tha? I weren't payin’ ‘tention.” 

Arthur smiled, forcibly. “Right. I would be most grateful—

“Can’t hear ya.” The bartender leaned in, and Arthur could smell his breath. Alcohol and bad-smelling fish, maybe. He didn’t care to guess what else. “Deaf in un ear see. Yerl have teh speak up.”

“I’ve been robbed of all my money,” Arthur said directly into his ear. “If you let me stay the night here—”

“Other ear, son.” The bartender turned his head, cupping his hand. “Could ‘u ‘peat that?”

Arthur breathed out slowly, barely containing his anger as he dropped his voice again. “Yes. I need a place to st—”

“Speak up lad, that un’s a bit busted too.”

“I need to stay here!” Arthur all but shouted, a bit too loudly, he realized, when chatter once more ceased in the bar, and all the occupants again turned to look at him.

The bartender straightened, his eyes hardened and he slammed his meaty hands down onto the counter. “You’ve got some nerve, _boy._ Who do you think you are, _nobility_?”

“I’m _King Arthur of Camelot_ ,” Arthur growled under his breath, glaring at the counter. He hadn’t expected the deaf bartender to hear, but the man evidently had better hearing than he let on, because his eyes took on a wicked glint.

“ _King Arthur. Of Camelot._ Did I hear that right?” 

Arthur looked up and met his eyes, hand dropping to his sword hilt on instinct. “You did.”

The bartender smirked. His smirk grew until a puff of smelly breath escaped his lips and he chuckled. Arthur wrinkled his nose.

“So _yer sayin'_ ,” The bartender was talking loudly now, intent on people overhearing. The man snorted. “Yer sayin’ that _you’re King Arthur of Camelot.”_ He continued snickering, and the bar erupted in guffawing and howling laughter. Gods, these men were worse than school children.

The bartender was still snickering. “Look _fool_ , next time yer ‘personatin’ royalty, at least pick a livin’ one!” 

Arthur would have normally felt humiliated at this treatment, but instead cold fear closed in around his chest. A living one? That must mean... _Everyone thinks I’m dead._ He scoffed in attempt at nonchalance. “Well is it so ridiculous? This king has been dead for... how long now?”

“Nearly three years,” a local grumbled. 

“May he rest in peace,” murmured another, this one a skinny lad not much older than himself. The second local gestured to the bartender for another drink. The bartender grunted and retrieved a pitcher and tankard from the shelf, poured the drink, and set it aside on the counter. Arthur wanted to ask more, but couldn’t make words appear in his mouth. _Three years?_

“Listen boy, yer welcome to make a fool o’ yerself ‘ere, but don’t go round ‘specting favors wv’ at attertude.” 

After shooting Arthur a last scathing look, the bartender nodded to the customer, as the bar chatter regained volume. The local reached out his hand. “ _Strangaþ._ ” At this the cup swept through the air, settling neatly into his grasp. Arthur stared at him. _He just used magic!_ Glancing around, nobody in the bar seemed to have noticed this, though they _must_ have. “You’re—”

The local grinned in response, “A warlock, yeah. The name’s Doran.” He made indication with his eyes for Arthur to sit down with him. Arthur sat, and the man Doran pushed the drink in front of him. “You are?”

“I’m Arth-” Arthur stopped at Doran’s raised eyebrow. “I’m… Merlin.” He hesitantly picked up the cup, nodded at the man, and took a sip. It was quite good mead, and he briefly relished the warmth it slipped inside of him. Alcohol was something he definitely was in need of right now. Looking back up, Doran was smirking at him. “I pity the lad whose name you stole that from. Doesn’t suit you anyways.” He stared at Arthur for a moment, before his eyes lit up. “Know what, I’ll call you Bryce. That work for you?”

“Mm.” Arthur chose to take another swallow of his drink instead of responding. “Doran, what town is this?”

The other man took a swig of his own drink. “Engerd. What was your journey here, Bryce?”

Arthur paused, remembering that he’d traveled here once before with Merlin, when seeking out the Dragonlord Balinor. It wouldn’t be so hard to lie, but Doran did seem rather sharp. He decided to tell the truth. “I don’t remember much of anything. I was wounded, in the woods, with my servant. Must have fallen unconscious, and then when I woke up I was at a lake, a couple miles South from here maybe. Do you know of it?”

Doran frowned for a moment. “Maybe near the forest of Merendra? Not sure.” He shrugged and knocked back some more mead. “I’ll ask my friend Bors. He’s better with direction than I am. Where will you be staying tonight? Seeing as you can’t very well stay here.” Arthur met Doran’s gaze as the man tilted his cup to his lips. His brown eyes were twinkling with laughter.

Arthur fought back a reciprocating smile, and decided on the spot that he rather liked Doran. “Did you have an idea?”

Doran shrugged. “I live with my father. I mean, he’s a real ass, but if you put in some hard work he’ll put a roof over you.” He winked at Arthur’s disgruntled expression. “Your Majesty.”

Arthur let his shoulders relax. This life might take some getting used to. “I’d... appreciate that.”

Doran resided on the edge of town, about a half-mile from the tavern. As they approached the cottage, Arthur upturned his nose from the familiar smell of manure. Perhaps Doran’s family were farmers then. Wonderful; he didn’t know the first thing about farming. He prided himself as a man of many talents, but peasantry was certainly not among them. 

“One minute now.” 

Arthur turned to see Doran hopping on one foot. Arthur watched, somewhat amused. _What is he...?_

Then the man retrieved something—a key perhaps—from his shoe, and made his way to the door. “You coming?”

“Yes.” Arthur wasn’t sure how Doran was able to make his way in the dark. Clouds had passed over the moon, and the night was now a blindfold. Even worse, there were several rocks on the route to the doorway, as if purposed for tripping people. Arthur started to delicately navigate them. In the dark, he heard Doran double back and approach.

“ _Léoht._ ” an orb of light sprang into Doran’s palm, and Arthur tensed, every instinct telling him that _magic is dangerous_ , and he was in danger, and he should fight, or run, or— _No. It’s alright_. Doran was looking mildly concerned at his reaction, so Arthur attempted to shrug it off. “How… how long have you been able to do that?” he asked shakily.

“They say that people are born with it, but I first discovered I had magic when I was thirteen. Since then it’s taken a lot of hard work to get where I am.” 

“And you practice it openly?” Arthur asked, gazing at the floating ball in amazement. Doran held it out to him, spilling light onto Arthur’s fingertips. Arthur withdrew his hand reflexively.

“Say, where’ve you been these last three years?”

Arthur shook his head. “Dead, apparently.” Doran frowned at that. “What happened?” Arthur continued, fighting to keep annoyance out of his tone. “I mean, you used magic in public and no one said anything, so clearly I’ve missed some things.”

The other man cleared his throat, looking rather bemused, if not concerned. “When King Arthur died, his queen uplifted the ban on magic. Magic then became accepted in Camelot, welcomed, even, and many of Camelot’s allies adopted the attitude.” His gaze flickered on Arthur’s face as if trying to read him, trying to gauge his response. Not enjoying the feeling, Arthur looked away, and Doran resumed.

“Essetir however, did not. Well, not under Lot’s rule, that is. Similar to Camelot’s prior ruler, king Uther, he feared magic, and thus doubled down efforts to eradicate it from his kingdom.”

“Was he successful?” 

“At first. Problem was, most magic users in Essetir fled to Camelot, where they found allies. Eventually, they rallied forces and they overthrew King Lot and the royal family. Took over the throne.”

Arthur jerked his head up. “ _What?_ ” He couldn’t help but think how different things would have turned out, had it been he ruling Camelot, or his father for that matter. If magic users could overthrow a kingdom so easily, it did make more sense now why his father had been so precautious.

“It’s true. Now the kingdom of Essetir is ruled by Queen Mira, and—” Doran shrugged. “The people liked her rule better, so no one complained.”

“Oh.” 

“It’s a new age now, Bryce. Magic isn’t something people fear anymore.”

Arthur bit the inside of his cheek, nodding. So many attempts had been made on his father’s life and his own by magic users. But to him it wasn’t so surprising, considering Uther’s harsh policies. He wondered if the people of Camelot preferred Guinevere’s rule to his own. She had allowed for the practice of magic, so he imagined she would have found favor among sorcerers, at least... _Should I have allowed sorcery? At the very least, given it a chance…_ There hadn’t really been the opportunity with Morgana’s relentless attacks on the city. The people had feared magic during those times. _There were so many opportunities and you just didn’t take them,_ persisted a small voice in his mind. _And Merlin couldn’t trust you because of that._

Doran broke him from his thoughts. “Let’s go inside, shall we? Bit cold out here for my liking.”

Doran led Arthur to the door and fitted the key into the lock. There was a click, and the door creaked open. Doran extinguished his light.

Inside was a cot pushed against a wall and a small kitchen, where an old man was sitting at a table, facing away from them. He didn’t turn around or acknowledge their presence. “Best not rouse him now,” Doran breathed as they crept past. Arthur looked over at the thin figure fumbling in faint candlelight to cut his bread one handed, all the while spilling his drink on his chin. He didn’t look so intimidating as Doran indicated, but Arthur knew that looks could be deceiving. Doran gestured for him to move past, and stopped before two doors leading out of the room.

“He’s not about himself lately.” Doran whispered, and made a spinning motion with his finger next to his ear. “Drinks away all his wit, the bastard.” He nodded to a door on the right. “You can have Bors’s room. It’s empty.”

Arthur turned the knob and swung it open. “Where does Bors stay then?”

His host shrugged. “He and I share a room.” At Arthur’s puzzled expression, Doran added, with some hesitation, “It’s warmer. You know, sleeping together.”

Arthur nodded, the logic dawning on him. “That’s smart.” It has never occurred to him to share a sleeping space simply for the sake of warmth, but maybe that’s what commoners did. He thought about all the times that his own bed had been freezing in winter, before he’d shared it with Gwen that is. Not that he'd want to _sleep_ with anyone, but having someone else—Merlin perhaps, warm the bed before he got in would have been nice.

Arthur looked backwards to Doran’s father, who still didn’t seem to have noticed their entry. Doran put a gentle hand on Arthur’s shoulder and steered him into the bedroom, closing the door behind them. The room was by no means spacious, containing only a worn blanket on the floor, a large chest and a small window with a skin covering, moonlight illuminating the room through the thin layer. 

“Just lock your door at night and you should be fine.” Doran breathed out a laugh. “If the old man does cause you trouble, you have a sword. I trust you know how to use it.”

Arthur blinked, unable to determine whether Doran was being serious. “He’s your father.”

Doran’s expression turned dark. “Hardly.” Arthur frowned, and Doran must have sensed his accusation, because he sighed, folding his arms as he leaned back against the door. “Anger is a terrible thing in a man, Bryce. My father is consumed by it. Has been for many years. You shouldn’t provoke him, because he does possess magic like I do, but if you let him alone he shouldn’t trouble you much. Just report in tomorrow morning and ask for work.” He gestured to the blanket on the floor. “Hope it meets standards, your Majesty.”

“I’m grateful, truly,” Arthur said seriously. “This is... more than I could have asked for. Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Bryce? Hey, do you have a surname? Or a place that you’re from?”

“Oh… Ah, it’s… ” He really should have been thinking about this.

Doran interrupted him. “Don’t worry, I’ll come up with something for ya.”

Arthur nodded. “Doran, how— have you… have you heard much word about Camelot, recently?”

“Some things. It seems to be doing well enough. It has a good queen. Why do you ask?”

Arthur shook his head. “It’s... good to hear is all.”

Doran stared at him for a long moment, lips pursed. Finally he said, “Wait one minute,” and left the room.

When Doran returned, he was carrying a large triangular shard of a mirror in his hands. He crossed to the window, drew the cover aside, and beckoned Arthur over. “Here.” Doran pulled Arthur close to him as he held the mirror shard daintily up. Dim silver streamed in, lighting up their faces in the reflection. Not bad, Arthur thought. He’d seen better days, but still, not bad considering all that had happened. But why was Doran doing this? He shot the other’s reflection a questioning glance. Doran was already looking at Arthur’s reflection, however, and not his own. He was also starting to smile, eyes seeming a bit mystified. “Well I’ll be,” he murmured. He handed the mirror shard to Arthur. “Guess you were telling the truth. Arthur Pendragon.”

“I don’t follow.”

Doran tapped the glass. “See, that’s the real you. You’re under some sort of glamour.”

“What? I don’t understand…” Arthur stared at his own reflection in bewilderment.

“Magic. You know, to make you unrecognizable. Do you know who did the spell?”

“Spell? What _spell_?”

Doran squinted, brows furrowing. “The spell to make you look like that.”

“The spell to make me— So you mean…” A cold chill ran through him. “I don’t look like King Arthur?”

“Mmm. Hate to break it to you, but not really, no. Only when you’re reflected in this.”

Arthur turned the mirror over in his hands, perplexed. He shook his head. “But no one did a spell. I haven’t encountered anyone since I walked into the tavern.”

“Suppose you didn’t notice? Let me try something.” Doran reached out a hand, and Arthur flinched. 

“It’s alright,” Doran said. “I’m just trying to lift their enchantment.” He directed his palm to Arthur’s face. “ _Ic þé álíese._ _Bemelde.”_ Doran’s eyes flashed gold, and afterwards he seemed to hold his breath. Arthur stared at him. “Do I look different?” The other man shook his head, seeming troubled. “Could be that their spell is very powerful,” he said. “but if it were so then your reflection likely wouldn’t have shown true... and no one in the tavern seemed to realize who you were, correct?”

“No, but I don’t think any of them liked me much either.”

“You could say that.” Doran stroked a hand over his short beard, staring vacantly out the window at the moon. “Did you... think anything specific, when you walked in?”

Arthur grimaced, trying to recall. What _had_ he been thinking? He’d probably been thinking like a king, he realized. Not a commoner. Of course the locals would notice something off. “Well the people didn’t look too friendly, and… I suppose I was concentrating on trying to not be recog— but what does that have to do with anything?” Doran had gone still, and the silence that followed was deafening. 

“What does it mean?” Arthur asked anxiously. He couldn’t take it; all of this talk about magic spells, and glamour, and him being dead, and… 

Doran swallowed, letting out a breath before turning to face him. “It means, _Arthur Pendragon_ , that you possess magic.”

_That’s. Not. Possible._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Hope you liked it! Sorry for not getting it out sooner— editing can take a lot of time. I imagine at this rate I might be able to crank one out every two weeks, maybe? At least that’s the hope, if not more frequently… Until then!


	3. Air

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Sorry it’s a bit late folks! School started up again, and I’ve been pretty busy. Also this chapter is a bit shorter than usual. It was going to be a longer one, but I decided that it would be too many scene changes... so that’ll be next chapter, where things *finally* get to start coming together a bit. Really looking forward to that, cause all this foundation-setting is slowly killing me. Still, it’s necessary for the plot.

* * *

“That’s not possible,” Arthur said quickly. “There is no _way_ that I’m a sorcerer.”

It wasn’t even a question in his mind. There was nothing even remotely magical, different or _special_ about him. Despite being born into royalty and thus treated specially, Arthur had always known that he wasn’t. In his childhood, particularly, he had _wanted_ to be special, wanted even to have magic himself—though he’d never breathed a word of that desire to anyone. He had frequently worried about being sucked into the life of pampering and politics that was expected of him. He worried about being an ordinary prince, in an ordinary position, with ordinary duties, day after day without change. It was why he practiced so hard at hunting and fighting. It was why he’d taken on _endless_ hours of training. It was why he took up every quest himself, rather than have his knights do it for him. It was why he liked Merlin—because there had always been _something_ about the boy that was the furthest thing from ordinary, and it made Arthur feel less ordinary, just for having him in his company. And now, though he was thoroughly convinced that he didn’t possess magic, there might have been a very small part of him that said: _Maybe? Just maybe? Please?_

“Could be that I’m wrong,” Doran said. “I mean I don’t know for certain.” He let out a breath. “It would be nice if you were though.” He pursed his lips, drumming his fingers on the window ledge. “Your half-sister, Morgana. She was a witch, wasn’t she?”

“On her mother’s side,” Arthur muttered under his breath.

“Naturally. Still, she was an extraordinarily powerful witch. And magic that strong doesn’t usually come from just one bloodline, you know. Sometimes the ability skips generations. Could be your grandfather, or even great grandfather—”

“I’m _not._ A _sorcerer,_ ” Arthur practically growled. He _couldn’t_ be. Though a small memory from early childhood nagged quietly at the back of his mind; one where his great grandfather had been banished from Camelot, because his father had said he wasn’t right in the mind. He was senile, he’d said, and a danger to the citizens. That didn’t mean anything, Arthur told himself.

Doran let out a small huff. “Alright. Best get some rest then—Arthur. Oh, can I call you that? When we’re in private that is, to not raise suspicion.”

“It’s my name,” Arthur responded dejectedly, as he pulled the skin back over the window. _It’s not like anyone else will call me that._ “Again, thank you.”

“Goodnight.” Doran slipped out of the room, and Arthur heard the creak of the door next to his opening and shutting as Doran turned in. 

When Arthur heard silence from the room next door, he held out his hand in front of him, and concentrated very hard on it. 

“Lé-ote,” he whispered into the darkness. But his hand did not summon an orb of light, like Doran’s had. The room was very dark. The moon must have disappeared behind a cloud, because he couldn’t even see his hand anymore. Arthur pushed down the slight feeling of disappointment. It’s not like he expected anything to happen in the first place. 

_Definitely not a sorcerer._

He kicked off his boots, and tried to make himself comfortable on the floor with the blanket. It was just like sleeping in the woods, he reasoned. Not ideal, but surely he could get used to the hard surface. After that he closed his eyes, and tried _very_ hard to fall asleep.

Unsuccessfully, of course.

* * *

The cool breeze was a delicate puff of breath washing in from the coast. It was one of those days that the air would sweep uncovered skin in light goosebumps, and the fog that coated The Isle of the Blessed was drifting with the flow. Patches of stone walls disappeared then reappeared, in a place of neither here nor there. 

And then there was air. Cool, clean air, inhaled—oxygen flooding the system, pores opening, blood pumping, goosebumps forming on bare arms. It was air that chased out the blinding white, the flickering images, the haze of sleep. Sucked like a vacuum, stretched and pulled and snapped. Air that squeezed time into an immeasurable quantity, that simultaneously stole and gave life, air, suffocating air.

It was _too soon_. Much too soon to be leaving. The dreams played back in her mind as she clutched at them desperately. It was the little things she longed for. _Please let them stay._ Dancing sunlight in her mother’s raven hair. Or her brother Kenric throwing her into a pool of water as a prank, and the pool, it had gone so deep, hadn’t it? _So deep. Bottomless._ _Like sinking into a void of stars._ And lights, there had been lights! Yes, she remembered! Like a thousand dazzling embers in the sky, darting like fireflies; her father had shown her... Even these bright memories were disappearing, however. 

She fought for them. And when Nimueh fought for something, she fought hard.

The universe, it seemed, was resisting her. Adamantly. Still, she fought. The memories were almost tangible. Her mother reading to her by the fire like when she was a girl. And the fire, it had been bright, and colorful, and _chromatic,_ unlike anything she’d seen on the mortal plane. And the way that the birds sang in the sideways garden of impossibility, and her father’s story-lined hands, large and steady, as he clasped hers tightly. _“It will be alright.”_ The resistance was there again, tugging impatiently.

But it _wasn’t_ alright. She was losing them again, wasn’t she? Even as she thought this, their peaceful faces were fading, replaced by ones of _fear_. Her brother Kenric and her mother...

The nooses tightened, and with a sickening, jolting motion, ropes were yanked upwards. And there was silence, horrible, smothering silence, accompanied by grave expressions from the hundred people gathered. She remembered the scream lodging in her throat. Father had tried to fight back when they came for him. He had lashed out against the guards, and…

Flames. Crackling, burning, roaring. This time she had screamed, and the castle guards were thrown backwards, away from her. And then she had ran, ran far, and vowed that as long as she lived, Uther Pendragon would suffer for his crimes. That reality came back, jolting and vivid, and it was as though she had never been there with them. The warm memories of her family and friends were now vanishing completely, leaving only cold emptiness and death, and... _her own_ . It had been bright and blinding, and _so sudden,_ she recalled. Somehow she had never expected death to be sudden.

The other world full of love and belonging had been a dream, she realized, resignation falling down hard, crushing. She’d had similar ones before, after all. These dreams were now slipping, slipping fast. It was wrong, so wrong, they had _been_ there, it wasn’t _fair—_

Her eyes were wet when she opened them.

She couldn’t remember why.

Nimueh took a deep breath in, and released it. Crisp, fresh air now filled her lungs. She was lying on her side, in damp grass, an overcast sky resting above her. She slowly pushed herself upright, half expecting someone to be watching, waiting for her to wake... but quiet surrounded her, broken only by the distant sound of lapping water. And then she remembered where she was. That’s right. The Isle of the Blessed. 

Lichen-covered stone walls stood silently by, and cold mist shrouded the scene. She stood, shivering in her sleeveless dress. It was impractical for the climate, of course. Really, it had been no more than a prop; an outfit to make an impression. _Evil looks good in red._ That was what she’d been going for. Evil. She liked toying with them, playing temptation and anger and intrigue all at once. The dress was a pretty one, and it had suited her. But now… her mouth crumpled. Now it had served its purpose. It had to go. 

Something warmer to wear would be nice. How she longed to sit herself down by a welcoming hearth. Or somewhere, anywhere away from the cold. Somewhere safe. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d truly felt safe. Years of traveling without a permanent home does that to you. Although she had the distinct feeling of solitude now, it did not make her feel safe in the slightest. She felt exposed and out of place, like an abandoned shadow—her existence in the physical world, a cruel mistake.

This much she knew, however: If she was alive, then someone else should be dead. That was how magic worked, after all; this _was_ The Isle of the Blessed. _The balance needs to be restored._ She wondered who had died for her. She wondered who had bargained. Most of all she wondered why anyone would want her alive to begin with.

Still, some things didn’t quite add up. If someone had been trying to bring her back to life, why were they not here to meet her? And how long had she been dead? The Isle usually only worked to bring people back from the brink of death, but she _had_ died. Nimueh was certain of that. 

She should have died. 

And yet...

A slow, creeping feeling of dread began to take over her mind. She was alive now, and she _shouldn’t_ be. 

Something was very, _very wrong._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi All! Just wanted to update, it's march 1st, and I know it's been like a month since I last posted. I have not abandoned this! Far from it actually. It's just that I'm trying to fit so much into this next chapter that it's really difficult to sort out what goes where and in what order and how much exposition is appropriate... Add that on top of school work, and mid-terms on the rise... But really, I appreciate all the support you've given me. Thank you so much! Wish me luck!

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Welp, that’s it for now. Fair warning I don’t always update regularly BUT. If you really want more PLEASE bug me about it. I need reminders. Also, I love reviews! Good, bad, don’t matter, just let me know what you think! Also, I’ll admit that this is more of a self-indulgence fic than anything else. I feel realistically if Arthur returned from the dead it would be later, like much later, maybe modern day. Maybe I’ll write that story someday. But I want him now. So there. Hopefully it will all come together in a comprehensible plot... :0


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